Rocking Autumn: The Homecoming Series, #1

By Alyne Hart

Can a second chance get a happily ever after? A sexy and sweet rock star romance that will make you believe in true love...

Jaxon West is my kryptonite.

It's been ten years since I've seen him. Ten years since he walked away without a goodbye. Jax with his cocky smile, sexy attitude and a guitar strapped across his chest. 

But I've moved on. Now it's just me, my books, my cupcakes and my cat - and that's the way I like it. Until he shows up out of the blue, looking like sin and willing to do just about anything to win me back. I thought I was strong, I thought he was just a memory. I wasn't prepared for the sparks that could light a fire between us, despite all my attempts to keep him at arm's length. 

All I can do is hope that I don't get hurt when I fall for the guy who's shattered my heart once already. But can our relationship survive the long distance? The jealousy and missed phone calls? 
And bigger still. Can it survive the secret he's too afraid to tell me?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alyne Hart
• Release date: Mar 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386909668

Alyne Hart

Alyne Hart is a contemporary romance author and wine connoisseur living in Walla Walla, WA. She's known for writing stories that pack an emotional punch and get you right in the feels.  She loves writing real, flawed characters and writing about realistic, gritty and raw romance. She's a romance junkie and happy endings addict, and if you’re a lover of deeply emotional, flawed and realistic romance reads with lots of delicious angst, her books are for you. Alyne's stories involve characters with bigger problems than just finding love. She writes stories about making peace with the past, rekindling old flames and healing old wounds. She loves small towns, men in uniform and alpha males with a heart of gold.  She began her story-telling journey first with her dolls, then it progressed to paper. She has a deep love for anything romantic, and she's a believer that in love anything is possible.  When Alyne isn’t writing, you can find her reading, hanging out with her cat, and spending time with her two children. She enjoys trips to the mountains just as much as trips to the wine cellar, live music, chick flick movie marathons and hanging out with her eclectic group of friends.  Follow Alyne: Facebook → http://bit.ly/2w89KNP Twitter → http://bit.ly/2w8kRqb Blog → http://bit.ly/2vxvmGy Goodreads → http://bit.ly/2vv8S8S Bookbub → http://bit.ly/2fyhncE Newsletter → https://mailchi.mp/a8a0de143ef8/alynehart

Book preview

Prologue

THERE ARE A LOT OF things you never forget about your first love.

You can remember exactly where you were when you first met and what you were wearing. Your first kiss and what they smelled like and maybe even what song was playing. You might remember how everything seemed like it was magic, and how together you felt so invincible.

You can remember all the special moments, the hand holding and the sweet nicknames and the way you said you’d be together forever, no matter what.

Well, I was eleven, standing in front of a brand new school, terrified to go in. I remember thinking no one would like me, and that I’d have no friends. My mother had washed and ironed my favorite dress for me—it was brown and sleeveless, much too light for that fall day, so I promised I would keep my sweater on over it. As soon as she’d pulled away, I stuffed the pink knit cardigan into my Rainbow Pony backpack, so I could admire the owl that adorned the middle of my chest. I had my backpack clutched tight to my body, and I took a deep breath, forcing myself up the stairs and towards the front doors.

I was feeling pretty good about myself until suddenly I was knocked to my knees by the force of someone running into me from behind. When I looked up, I saw him.

It wasn’t magical at all.

He flashed a bright grin that lit his brilliant blue eyes, and then he laughed, Sorry, Hershey, you should walk faster.

Tears wanted to fall. But I gritted my teeth, brushed myself off and stood up. Hershey? I demanded with a huff.

The boy laughed again. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown dress. You look like a giant Hershey bar.

It wasn't love at first sight, not by a long shot. In fact, I hated him with all the passion in my eleven-year-old body.

The other thing I remember? The day he broke my heart.

Chapter One

Autumn

MY WHOLE LIFE HAS, in some way, revolved around cupcakes. No, I’m not kidding, cupcakes. As I tell this story, I have a smear of pink frosting across my left cheek and more than likely some in my hair.

My mother loved cupcakes. I can still remember each birthday, and the beautiful cupcakes she would make for me. She took time with each one, crafting delicate petals from fondant, carving patterns into the leaves and piping the icing just so. She said cupcakes were like a little hug for the soul.

Based on my sales reports, I’d say she was right.

For me, it wasn’t always about cupcakes. I wanted to be an artist. A real life, cash for canvas artist. I had romanticized visions of myself living out of a pink VW van on a beach somewhere and getting discovered by some big wig art collector. I saw myself going to parties where everyone wore black and sipped on expensive champagne, and they all celebrate me and my brilliant mind captured through oil paints and brushwork.

What really happened was a lot less glamorous and way less thrilling. I lived in LA for two years, heartbroken and just plain broke. I got tired of waiting tables at the grungy diner that left me too tired to paint my masterpiece. As for the van? I sold it for rent money exactly four months before I got evicted and came running home with my tail tucked between my legs.

My parents welcomed me, their wayward daughter, back into their fold with open arms—and a few lectures. I cried myself to sleep most nights. I’d failed at my dream and came right back to the small town I’d been trying to escape, and then had to work in my Dad’s bookstore to boot.

Every night my mother made me a cupcake, which she baked just for me. A single, beautiful cupcake. After a while I grew out of my sullen behavior, mostly healed my broken heart and the cupcakes became the best part of my day.

Every time a guy broke my heart, there was a cupcake. Every bad day, every painting thrown in the trash, there was a cupcake waiting for me like a little hug, wrapped neatly in a fluted paper liner.

Now? It’s just me, my cupcakes, my books, and my cat. No silly boys, no heartbreak, and no crying. I have no time for any of that. You know why?

All. Men. Are. The. Same.

That sounds horribly dramatic, I know. I’ve been called that a time or two. But it’s absolutely true, and I know this from experience.

Now fine, I don’t claim to be an expert at everything, and I certainly don’t know everything. I do know that cats only meow at humans and that penguins mate for life. I know that a duck’s quack doesn’t echo and that in every single episode of Seinfeld there is a Superman somewhere. I know that a single cloud can weigh more than a million pounds, and I know that all men are the same.

They never remember your anniversary or your birthday. They stay up until four in the morning playing video games, yet they can’t stay awake to watch a single chick flick. They can never remember that you hate red roses and that your favorite color is aqua. They don’t know what they want, and they’re afraid to commit. They never say what needs to be said, and they try and manage your relationship the way they manage their fantasy football team.

Dramatic? Maybe. But I have proof.

Exhibit A. Shawn Frost. Shawn was as promising as promising gets. Handsome in the extreme, a silver fox if you will, with a rock hard body that only a mountain climber could have. Shawn was a medical pilot, an exciting AND stable job. We had great conversations and an even better first few dates—we sat around a bonfire, roasted marshmallows and went for a walk hand in hand in the park and talked about stars and adventures. Three weeks later, I got ghosted.

Exhibit B. Brent Hubbard. Brent was beautifully melancholic. An artist, like myself. He would say cryptic, hypnotic things about the way our breath mingled and the way our bodies fit together like pieces of a puzzle. We were inseparable, Brent and I, and everyone commented on the tangible energy between us. Brent’s biggest problem was he had no idea what he wanted in life. He didn’t even have the drive to break up with me properly, leaving me forced to do the deed myself through choking tears and sobs.

Exhibit C. Kyle Taylor. I thought Kyle was so cool because he was a professor and talked about deep things like the force of the world and out of body experiences and death. One night after we watched a documentary, I turned to him and asked him a question—our answers were like we’d just met our other half. He was half hippie, half rocker cowboy, and he rocked my world. Every Saturday. Spot the red flag? We had our space, and we had our days, and I fell head over heels in love. Until I realized I was just Saturdays. Someone else had Monday, and someone else had Wednesday—you get the idea.

Exhibit D. Jaxon West. Jaxon with his big white grin and perfectly tousled jet black hair and blue eyes. Jaxon West with his guitar and swaggering walk and the charm that fell from his perfect lips without even trying. The guy who called me Hershey as a way to get under my skin until we were fourteen, and a term of endearment after he made me his girlfriend. He was the guy who talked me into giving him a chance. Jaxon was the first and only guy to ever really break my heart, and he was the one who disappeared. Do you want to know what guys like Jaxon are? They’re nothing but trouble.

There’s no cupcake for that.

Chapter Two

Autumn

MY MOM AND DAD HAD me pretty late in life. By the time I was twenty-five, they were ready to retire, pack everything up and head to Florida to live out their golden years. They wanted me to come with them, but I’d grown to love the small town I’d hated so much as a kid, and I decided to stay.

I love this town. Walla Walla, Washington, the town so nice they named it twice.

If you haven’t heard of it, I’m not surprised. And no, it doesn’t rain here a lot. Contrary to what you might believe, not all of Washington is living under a constant rain shower. But if you’ve ever eaten a Walla Walla Sweet Onion, well then you’ve had a small taste of this place I call home.

Walla Walla sits in the southeastern corner of Washington state, about an hour or so drive from both Idaho and Oregon. It has a real small town feel but with a relaxed, funky vibe.

We’re all about local cuisine here. You won’t find more than two big chain restaurants in this town—but park downtown and anything you want is right at your fingertips. Fine French cuisine, artisan pizza, sushi, designer sandwiches or Italian? You can find it. Wineries and eclectic pubs and bars with live music every weekend? Yep, we have those too. Want to take in the scenic vista of a mountain and go on a hike, or maybe do a bit of fishing and boating, no problem. Feel like being rustic and doing the farming thing, well, we’ve got that as well.

And that’s where I fit in. At Brook’s Books and Patisserie in the hub of it all, on Main Street. A town small enough that the busiest downtown street is actually called Main Street. The Patisserie part came along when I took over. You see, my parents moved off to Jacksonville, Florida and my father wanted me to keep the bookstore and ‘keep the family name alive’ –as if I were going to plan some kind of town square execution with my family’s last name or something.

What did I know about running a bookstore? Absolutely nothing, I was an artist after all.

So, I learned everything I could before they left. And I had my mother teach me how to make her cupcakes, all her secrets, and her craft. I learned that my mother was an artist, and the frosting was her medium. I learned that my father was too conservative in his business practices and that I added a fresh new edge to it. I learned that cupcakes and books make a great combination. And I learned that I was finally good at something.

Using my artistic eye, I redesigned the interior and had a new shop sign made to make my little corner of the world stand out. I stayed open later and had open mic nights. I held book readings and had book, wine, and cupcake nights. My little shop became a fixture in this city, along with the likes of the Whitman Hotel, onions, and the wine industry. Just me, my books and my cupcakes—I’m part of what makes this town so great and unique.

When Hadley came along two years ago, well, I just knew I could never leave. Every boss babe needs a right hand, and she is mine. We’re two peas in a pod, me and Hadley.

Some people when they talk about their best friend, describe them as something that fills in the holes of who they are. Like, she’s loud, and I’m quiet. Or she’s ostentatious, and I’m modest. Not me and Had, we’re twins of each other. Other than the fact that she’s obsessed with setting me up with people, and I’m just as obsessive about saying no, we’re exactly alike. Something her husband says is just as entertaining as it is frightening.

Hadley is the bookstore manager. I had to hire someone with some business sense when I quickly realized I had none. I had the vision, I had the drive, I could get people to do what I needed them to do, but I had no idea how to make it all come together. That’s where Hadley came in. She whipped us all into shape, and now, not only can I afford my rent, but my cat can eat the fancy individually packaged soft foods. On top of that, I can afford to eat out most nights of the week—which is good because while I can make the most delicious cupcake, real cooking is beyond me.

Nights like tonight that’s a good thing. Raggedy sweat pants and a T-shirt are calling my name, and I pile into bed with my take-out Thai and season five of Grey’s Anatomy at the ready.

Then my cell buzzed. It’s Hadley.

"NEED to get out. Garret is being a dick. PH 124. One hour."

PH 124 in an hour? I sigh out loud and look at my Pad Thai, then at Jasper, my cat who meows at me. They’re both saying, don’t go, stay in bed and binge watch Netflix shows. The cute new pair of jeans and leather peep toe stilettos staring at me from my closet say something else.

An hour gives me no time, so I gulp down the noodles, toss my hair into a messy ponytail to get it off my sweat covered neck in this humid June heat, and top off the jeans and stilettos with a drapey black camisole. I can’t help myself. 124’s Campari cocktails are the best.

Walking in I scan the red, brick walls looking for her signature glossy black bob shining against them. 124 is packed, as usual. A hundred conversations compete to be heard over the indie rock filtering through the speakers and the sounds of glasses clinking together noisily. Finally, I spot her waving like a mad woman from the bar closest to the back of the place and make my way through the crowd of bodies to her. She squeals and throws her arms around my neck.

Thank you, babe, she sighs and rests her brilliant jade green eyes on me and using her fingers in a come here motion at the bartender, she signals him over. I just couldn’t take him tonight. He was all, finances this, and budget that. He even broke down how much toilet paper cost per square and how much I should use if I pee or shit.

Sorry Had, I laugh. You’re the one who married a financial analyst. It could be worse. I mean last month’s cereal crisis was much more intense.

Screw you. She rolls her eyes with a laugh and swats at my arm.

Fine, I concede. You found one of the good ones, so what if he breaks down every grain of rice and every drop of dish soap you use.

Hey Autumn, the adorable, pink-cheeked, blond-haired bartender Cole greets me. Campari?

I flash him a bright grin and nod. So yeah, you figured it out, me and Had come here a lot.

"God he’s cute, Hadley groans, watching his forearms flex while he goes to work on my drink. You should ask him if he’s single."

"Um, no, I shouldn’t."

Suit yourself. She shrugs, sipping at her fruity blue cocktail while she stares. Are you still coming out with Garret and me for his birthday?

Cole slides me my drink and winks. I might or might not have blushed, but I’ll never tell. Then I turn my attention back to Hadley. Is it another setup? I question with my eyebrow cocked at her.

Hadley shrugs and wrinkles up her face like she’s begging me to do something. Fine—yes, it’s a setup. But he’s great AJ, you’ll really like him. He’s smart, he’s professional, with no real baggage that I know of, and he’s a total babe. Garret works with him and gave him the seal of approval. He gets back from New York in a couple of weeks, and I want you to meet him.

"Oh well, a total babe. I roll my eyes and sip at the orange liquid heaven in my glass. Had, I don’t want to date anyone. Like, at all, you know that. I’ve got the store, and that takes up most of my time, and believe it or not—I like being alone."

Hadley is persistent. So, just have a little fun. Take up one of those friends with benefits things I’ve heard so much about. She winked with a smirk. Seriously, when’s the last time you got laid? If I can’t live vicariously through you and my romance novels, then what do I have really?

I inhale deeply through my nose, shaking my head with a laugh. "It’s not a date. If this guy even thinks it’s a date, or a hookup—wait, why the hell am I even agreeing to this?"

Because you love me? Hadley grins, swallowing down the last of her drink in one gulp. "And sweet holy hell, what is that?"

I turn my head to see what caught her attention. It takes all of point five seconds to see what that is. My mind immediately goes to a saying my mom used to use. ‘Speak of the devil, and the devil appears.’

Well, that is trouble.

Walking, talking, living, and breathing trouble. If you haven’t caught on yet, I’m talking about Jaxon. Jaxon West. He left this town ten years ago, almost to the day. And he was making a beeline in my direction.

Everyone’s eyes are on him, and suddenly it feels like the earth has slowed down. Everything is happening in slow motion, like in a movie when the ridiculously hot guy walks in? Only this isn’t a movie, it’s my favorite place to unwind, and he is invading it.

Time stops for a second. Jaxon smirks. I can see one corner of his lips gradually twitching up just a little higher than the other. He runs his hand through his hair slowly, and I see each strand as it falls perfectly back in place around his face. I’m not sure if his smirk is because he knows everyone is looking or if it’s because he saw me—and I’m trying hard as hell to look like I don’t notice him.

The hairs on my arms stand up, and my heart pounds so loudly it vibrates in my ears. All the fury I’d felt ten years ago, and the bitter, angry taste in my throat, it’s all still there.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his perfectly tousled jet black hair and steel blue eyes that still looked like they can see right through me. Fuck his tight black jeans and even tighter black shirt. And definitely, fuck those brightly colored tattoos that decorate his arms. And you know what else? Fuck that grin he has pasted on his face while he stares right through me.

Autumn. He smiles. Oh yeah, fuck that sexy, thick as velvet with an edge voice too.

Jaxon. I cock my eyebrow and narrow my eyes with purpose, trying to play it cool. So, the rock star thing didn’t pan out, huh?

Now, I knew good, and well the rock star thing had panned out. Kind of. He and his band, The Living Room Sessions, are pretty popular. Not signed by a big label with a million screaming groupies popular, but popular none the less. They play with some great bands, do some big tours and have quite the following.

Fine. I’ve stalked him a little bit on Facebook over the years.

He chuckles and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans, a modest and charming move that has absolutely no effect on me. How’ve you been, Hershey?

Every muscle in my body recoils, every nerve I have is lit with fire. A fire I can’t contain. Before I know it, my glass is in my hand, and my beautiful, orange, delicious cocktail is on Jaxon’s stupid, perfect face and down the front of his stupid, tight black T-shirt.

It isn’t my finest moment.

You don’t get to call me that. I glare at him angrily. You have no right to call me that ever again.

I pick up my purse, slap a twenty on the counter, and proceed to stomp and huff my way out of the bar in my black, peep toe stilettos.

Chapter Three

Jaxon

THERE ARE A FEW THINGS every man should know. Every man should know how to tie a tie properly. He should know how to build a campfire, how to treat a snakebite, and what to do if he’s ever faced with a bear attacking him in the woods. He should know how to parallel park and how to fix a flat. He should have at least one poem he can recite to a lady upon demand, and he should know how to fix a faucet.

He should also know when to admit he is a fucking bastard. And I, ladies and gentleman, am a Grade A, First Class fucking bastard.

Licking my lips and cocking my head to the side, I grin at Autumn’s friend, who’s watching Autumn stomp out the door, and then at me covered in her drink with equal interest. Campari. I lick my lips and smile. Classy girl.

"Who. Are. You?" The girl with the shiny black hair and glossy red lips arches her eyebrow at me in question.

No one of consequence. I cock my head, running my hands through my hair. Fuck. It’s wet too. We used to know each other—a long time ago.

No one of consequence my ass, she laughs. It’s a sexy, throaty laugh and she tosses another twenty on the bar and struts away.

I’m not sure what I’d expected. I mean, sure, a parade announcing the town’s prodigal son has returned would have been nice.

In my defense, I didn’t follow her to the bar. I didn’t even know she was going to be there. I got into town yesterday, flew from Chicago to Walla Walla on a red-eye and spent most of the day sleeping and catching up with my Pops. When I needed to unwind, I headed downtown to grab a beer.

I spotted her right away through the window. And Goddamn. She’s quite unforgettable, even this many years later. And man, she’s still cute as hell. No, cute doesn’t even begin to cover it. She’s grown into one hell of a damn fine woman. Still has that long, caramel brown hair that curls a bit at the ends. Wide, innocent eyes the color of chocolate, flecked with gold and legs for days. I couldn’t see much through the sweet cocktail in my face, but she looked curvy in all the right places too.

Guinness. I nod to the bartender, half ready to knock that asshole’s cocky smirk right off his face. Instead, I grab a handful of cocktail napkins, dry my face and shirt the best I can, and slick my hair back with my hands. Thanks. I nod again, taking my brew and spinning around on the barstool to stare out into the crowd of people.

Not surprisingly, they’re staring back.

I don’t know a lot of things. I’ve never owned a real tie. Mine have all been clip-on. I would probably die if a snake ever bit me, and I know I wouldn’t survive a bear attack. The only poems I know are the lyrics to the songs I’ve written, and I’ve never fixed a faucet.

But I know one thing.

I will get Autumn Jane Brooks back.

Chapter Four

Autumn

IN BED THAT NIGHT, everything floods back. Everything good and bad.

Jaxon was my high school sweetheart. Every memory from fourteen to eighteen in some way involves him. My first kiss and then my first real kiss. My first prom, the first time I snuck out of the house and got grounded, and the first time I ever fell in love.

We were inseparable Jax and me. Our heads were often pressed together